"That's it. "The upload is automatic once activated. There's a small switch on the back of the pendant—you turn it onright before you meet Ezra, and it starts recording immediately. Eight-hour battery from activation."
He pulls out his phone, shows me an app interface. "This is the monitoring system. I can listen in real-time if needed, but primarily it's just recording and storing. After the lunch, we review the audio together, note any threats or manipulations, build our case."
"Our case." I set down the necklace. "You keep saying that. Like you're part of this."
"I am part of this. That's what protection means."
"Protection means keeping me safe. Building legal cases is something else." I pick up my coffee to use as a barrier. "You're not my attorney. You're not my partner. You're security. There's a distinction."
"There is. And I'm choosing to blur it." He leans against the opposite counter, mirroring my posture in ways that feel deliberate. "You need someone who understands both the tactical and legal dimensions of what Ezra's doing. I have that experience. So yes, I'm building our case. You can call it overreach if you want. I call it comprehensive protection."
The distinction matters. Overreach suggests violation of boundaries. Comprehensive protection suggests care that extends beyond contractual obligation. I'm not sure which one I'm more afraid of.
"Fine," I say. "Comprehensive protection. Walk me through Thursday's logistics."
He pulls up something on his phone, and I move closer to see the screen. The kitchen forces proximity—there's no way to look at his phone without standing near enough that our arms almost touch. I can feel the heat radiating from him, awareness prickling across my skin in ways I haven't felt since beforeGabriel. Since before I learned that proximity to men meant danger more often than desire.
But Jax doesn't feel dangerous in the ways Gabriel did. He feels present. Attentive. Like he's cataloging my reactions not to exploit them but to understand them.
"Marconi's," he says, showing me a map. "You're meeting Ezra at 1 PM. I'll arrive at 12:45, take a table with clear sightlines to where you'll be seated. Solange arrives separately, different table, positioned to observe angles I can't see. We create triangulated coverage."
"Triangulated coverage. You make it sound military."
"It's the same principle. Multiple observers, overlapping fields of vision, no blind spots." He zooms in on the map, and his hand brushes mine where I'm steadying myself against the counter. The contact is brief, accidental, electric. He doesn't acknowledge it, but I see his hand still fractionally. Recognition of the touch even if he's not commenting on it.
I pull my hand back, wrap both around my coffee mug. "Marconi's has three exits—main entrance, kitchen service door, emergency exit in the back. If Ezra becomes threatening, if you need extraction, you walk toward the kitchen. I'll intercept you there, Solange covers your exit."
"You think he'll become physically threatening? In a restaurant full of witnesses?"
"I think powerful men do unexpected things when their leverage is challenged. And I think preparation prevents panic." He sets down his phone, and the movement brings him fractionally closer. The kitchen is too small for this conversation. Or maybe exactly the right size—intimate by necessity rather than choice. "But realistically? Ezra will be charming.Concerned. He'll perform sympathy while documenting every reaction you have. The threat isn't physical. It's psychological."
"Then what am I preparing for?"
"Maintaining composure when he implies you killed Gabriel. Staying calm when he questions your mental stability. Not reacting when he suggests the estate should go to family who actually loved Gabriel instead of the wife who benefited from his death." He says it bluntly, without cushioning. "Those are the attacks coming. If you know they're coming, you can prepare responses instead of reacting emotionally."
The brutal honesty is almost refreshing. Dr. Cross would frame it more gently. Solange would be outraged on my behalf. Jax just names the threat directly and expects me to handle it.
"Okay," I say. "How do I prepare responses to accusations I'm not sure are false?"
The question hangs between us. I've just admitted uncertainty about Gabriel's death to the man who's been monitoring me obsessively for weeks. The man who could use that admission against me if he wanted. The man who has more access to my life than anyone since Gabriel died.
Jax doesn't look surprised. Doesn't look judgmental. Just sets down his coffee and says, "By accepting that uncertainty doesn't equal guilt. That not remembering doesn't mean you're lying. That gaps in memory are consistent with trauma, not deception."
"Ezra won't see it that way. His investigators won't see it that way."
"Then we reframe the narrative. You were in an abusive marriage. Gabriel was controlling, violent in ways that left psychological scars even if physical evidence faded. The night he died, there was a fight. He grabbed you, threatened you,and in the chaos of defending yourself, he fell. You don't remember exact details because trauma fragments memory. That's documented neuroscience, not convenient fiction."
"Is that what happened?" I ask. "Or are you just constructing a story that makes me sympathetic?"
"I'm constructing a story that's consistent with evidence. Whether it's exactly what happened doesn't matter legally. What matters is whether it's believable, defensible, and supported by facts we can prove." He meets my eyes, and the intensity of his focus makes my pulse kick up. "Was Gabriel abusive?"
"Yes."
"Did he control you? Monitor you? Make you afraid?"
"Yes."
"Then that's not fiction. That's the foundation. Everything else is details we build on top of truth." He picks up the necklace from where I set it on the counter, holds it out. "Try it on. See if it feels natural."
